


Goldfish

by Khoshekh42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (i didn't mean to and i am sorry), Angst, Fluff, M/M, Matchmaker Sherlock, Mycroft is a hopeless romantic and no one can convince me otherwise, Past!Sherlock is an ass, Sherlock in general is an ass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-10-18 11:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10615635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khoshekh42/pseuds/Khoshekh42
Summary: Sherlock realizes that Mycroft is lonely and decides to play matchmaker with the help of John, Anthea, and, of course, Greg.





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft was lonely. Sherlock wasn’t stupid- quite far from it- he could see when his brother was hurting, lying. Mycroft was lonely, despite how much he might try to deny it.

 

“John?” He brought up one day, as his friend was reading the morning paper, and a few hours after Mycroft himself had left the house after trying to convince Sherlock to take a case of his.

 

“What?” John asked, turning his head slightly towards Sherlock, but his eyes never actually left the page.

 

“Did Mycroft seem… Lonely to you?”

 

John put the newspaper down, turning to look at Sherlock, confused. “Not really, but you’d know better than me. You are his brother.”

 

“Yes, yes, I just thought, since you’re better with emotions than I am, you might…” It wasn’t often that Sherlock admitted to someone else being better at anything than he was.

 

“Well. I mean, he’s got to have… friends.” Even as John said it, it sounded stupid.

 

Sherlock scoffed. “Mycroft doesn’t have friends.”

 

“Well that’s his problem then, isn’t it? He’s busy working all day, hardly any non-work related interactions, that’ll wear a person out. So, what, we find him a friend? How the hell are we supposed to do that?”

 

Sherlock steepled his hands, resting his chin on them. “No. He needs a goldfish.”

 

“What? How exactly is a fish going to-”

 

“No, John,” Sherlock looked at him scathingly, “Not a fish, a goldfish. A simple minded person- like you.”

 

“Wow, now I’m inclined to help you.” John retorted, but he was used to it. “Right, and how is that any different than a friend?”

 

“Implies more than just a friendship, John. It’s a whole deal that Mycroft and I had as kids, we described people as goldfish, and when Mycroft tried dating, he had a goldfish. Having friends wasn’t the same. I had a couple friends, but I never had a goldfish. Mycroft was always better at social norms than I was- am.”

 

“Mycroft’s dated people?” John asked, incredulous.

 

Sherlock splayed himself out on the couch, exasperated. “Yes John. Is that all you got out of that?”

 

“No, I just… It never occurred to me that someone might like him… romantically.”

 

“Trust me I’m disgusted with the thought as well.”

 

“So… How are we supposed to find Mycroft a goldfish? It’s not like we could sign him up for a dating site.”

 

“No they’re all desperate, not something Mycroft would find appealing.” Sherlock waved the idea off.

 

“Someone we know then?”

 

Sherlock paused. “Perhaps. Someone he knows, in specific, would be better.”

 

“Alright. Anthea?”

 

“What, his assistant?” Sherlock scoffed, “Problematic for many reasons.”

 

“Being?”

 

“Well he wouldn’t approve of dating anyone at work, and the main problem would be that he’s gay.”

 

“He’s-? Is he?”

 

“You didn’t see it? Honestly John, I forget how stupid other people can be sometimes.”

 

“Right then… Who does he know outside of work?”

 

“You, but I think you’d be against dating my brother.”

 

“A bit.”

 

Sherlock snorted.

 

“He know anyone else?”

 

“Well, L- Oh.” Sherlock leaned back, realization dawning on his face. “That might work.” He leapt up, rubbing his hands together. Cackling slightly he whipped out his phone, and began texting frantically. Sherlock turned to leave, when:

 

“Sherlock, who?”

 

“Lestrade.” He grinned as if it were an obvious answer.

 

“Is Lestrade gay too? He had a wife, so he’s bisexual? How do I not know these things?”

 

“John if you simply observed then you might-” He was cut off by his phone buzzing in his hand.

 

“He’s on his way.”

 

“What, Greg? Sherlock, if he’s on his way, please just clean up the kitchen.

 

“The kitchen is fine, we need to plan-”

 

“The kitchen is not fine,” John interrupted, “I might be used to body parts lying around the house, but Greg probably will take kinder to your meddling if you don’t have a liver sitting on the table.”

 

“B-”

 

“Also!” John raised his voice to be heard over Sherlock’s, “Don’t bloody well tell him that you’re trying to set him up with Mycroft, for gods sake just tell him that you want him to be Mycroft’s friend.”

 

“Why?” Sherlock seemed genuinely confused.

 

“Wh- Sherlock, you can’t just tell someone to fall in love, it just… happens. Whether Greg will fall for Mycroft is left up to fate, you can’t control that, this isn’t one of your science experiments. These are real people with real feelings. I mean, I didn’t mean to- Sherlock, just listen to me for once, please?”

 

Sherlock looked at John curiously, but nodded. “This is why I keep you around John. I trust you when it comes to people. I don’t understand… feelings very well, aside from in a literal, biological sense.”

 

“Thank you.” And as John spoke, there was a knock at the door. A few moments later found Greg Lestrade up the stairs and in the sitting room in their flat.

 

“You said it was urgent, Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

 

“Mycroft.” Sherlock told the DI, in a softer tone, different from the spitting one he usually took when speaking his brother’s name. A flash of genuine concern drew its way across Greg’s face. “What’s wrong with him?” Sherlock smiled slightly, noticing the worry in Greg.

 

“He’s lonely. He needs a go- a friend.”

 

“What, you want me to do that?” Greg seemed skeptical.

 

“Be his friend, I don’t know how these things work.” Sherlock waved his hand towards John, knowing the man had better idea of how to ‘make friends’. But John just shrugged. “I’ve never tried to befriend anyone like Mycroft before. Who the hell would know how he- oh.” John rolled his eyes. “Anthea. Sherlock give me Anthea’s number.”

 

“I could always-”

 

“Give me Anthea’s number.”

 

Sherlock complied as Greg smirked at him.

 

Does your boss read your texts –JW

 

The response was scarily fast, but John figured that was to be expected.

 

No, he trusts me. What do you need that Mycroft doesn’t need to know about? –A

 

Does he have any friends? –JW

 

Well he’s got me, and a man in IT he knew in college. Why? –A

 

Does he seem lonely to you –JW

 

My god yes –A

 

Okay, so Sherlock’s got a bit of plan to have him befriend Greg Lestrade, at least that’s what we’re telling Greg. Sherlock wants to set him up with Greg –JW

 

Alright. How can I help? –A

 

You’re actually found along with this? –JW

 

*going along. –JW

 

Of course, he’s lonely and he’s my friend. I do think he and Greg would get along well, and if romance happens… I’d be the one in the front row taking pictures of him to blackmail with him later –A

 

John grinned. “Anthea’s onboard.”

 

“Good, now all we need is a plan.”

 

John’s phone buzzed.

 

If you want I could set up a meeting between the two. He’d never suspect a thing, all I need is a case of yours –A

 

“And we’ve got a plan. Anthea’s going to set up a meeting, Greg what cases are you working on right now?”

 

“Uh…” Greg seemed startled that everything was moving along so quickly. “There’s a murder, fairly straightforward, with some guy named Gabriel Hill as the victim. Another murder, victim named Kate Finch.”

 

Gabriel Hill murder, Kate Finch murder –JW

 

Kate Finch??? Blonde, 5’2”?? –A

 

“Uh, Anthea wants to know if Kate Finch is blonde and if she’s 5’2”, I guess she’s heard of her.”

 

“Yeah, actually.”

 

Greg says yes –JW

 

Oh my god. She’s been missing for seven months. She worked with M, we never reported it because of security –A

 

“Well we found our case. Kate Finch was missing for seven months, she worked with Mycroft.”

 

“Oh. That was easier than I thought it was going to be.” Greg shrugged.

 

“Yes this is brilliant,” Sherlock mused.

 

“Once again, Sherlock, bit not good. Let’s not say deaths are brilliant.”

 

“Fine, whatever. What music do you like, Lestrade?”

 

“Uh, some rock, not country, pop is kind of nice when it’s not bloody awful.” Greg knew at this point to just listen to Sherlock, and not question the things he asked of him.

 

“Mycroft is a particular fan of Oasis.”

 

“Is he really? Wouldn’t have figured him for a pop kinda guy. But yeah, I like Oasis.”

 

“Good, as you’re in his office, hum, sing one of their songs. He may not react but it’ll certainly pique his interest.”

 

“Sure.” Greg looked a little uncomfortable, “Sherlock are you sure this is a good idea?”

 

“Of course, why wouldn’t it be?”

 

“Well, it kind of feels like… I don’t know, it feels like we’re poking our noses into something we shouldn’t be.”

 

Sherlock waved it off. “Trust me, Mycroft needs this.”

 

“Alright. I’m in.” Greg steeled his gaze, and prepared himself for what he was sure was going to be a hell of a week.


	2. Chapter 2

“Mycroft.” Anthea walked over to her boss’s desk. “We found Kate Finch.”

Mycroft looked up, startled. “The one that disappeared six or seven months ago?” 

“She was killed, just recently, Detective Inspector Lestrade is on her case, he’d like to know when he can come in to talk to you about it.” Anthea told him, only a slight glimmer to her eyes that might indicate that she wasn’t revealing everything that she knew. Mycroft didn’t even bother to look hard enough to see it. 

“Am I open tomorrow at any point?” Mycroft asked, Anthea having done most of Mycroft’s scheduling. 

“Shall I book you with DI Lestrade at two?”

“Yes, that sounds wonderful. Thank you Anthea.”

Anthea sent off a text to John as she walked back to her desk.

L has a meeting with M at 2 tomorrow –A 

Anthea went back to her work, forgetting about helping her boss’s seemingly incurable case of loneliness for a few hours.

*:*:*:*:*

 

Greg was glad to get a lead on the Kate Finch case, they’d been getting desperate. So if he came into the office the next day with a chipper spring in his step, then that was the reason. 

Sally certainly noticed the change in Greg. “What’s with you? Hot date tonight?” She teased.

Greg snorted, but grinned. “No I’ve got a lead on the Finch case. Apparently, she worked with Mycroft.”

“Who?” Sally figured she was supposed to know who this ‘Mycroft’ (whatever the hell kind of name that was) was. 

“What, he hasn’t kidnapped you?” Greg asked, laughing.

“You were kidnapped?” Sally seemed genuinely concerned.

“No, no it’s not like that. It’s fine, he didn’t really kidnap me, it’s just a joke. I mean, there was a creepy car, and he- well it wasn’t technically against my will.” Greg pondered for a moment before shaking his head. “In any case, the important thing is that I’ve got a meeting with Mycroft this afternoon. Damn Holmes probably won’t even guess what Sherlock and Anthea are doing. You know, I’ve always wanted to pull a fast one on a Holmes.” Greg grinned at Sally, expecting a chuckle at least. Instead, she was gaping at him.

“Holmes?”

“Oh. Yeah. Mycroft Holmes. He’s Sherlock’s older brother.”

“And… you’re excited about a meeting with a Holmes?”

“Well,” Greg flushed a little red, “I mean, I’m getting a lead on the Kate Finch case. ‘Snot like I wanna see the man.” As he said it, he knew he was lying. Mycroft intrigued him. He really wouldn’t mind being friends with the man.

“Mhmm.” Apparently Sally knew he was lying as well.

Greg retreated into his office to listen to Oasis. 

If he was nervous, well… he could just equate that to meeting with a high ranking government official. 

*:*:*:*:*

 

Eventually, Mycroft knew he would have to get ready for his meeting with Lestrade. Review everything he knew about Finch’s disappearance, and perhaps discuss with Anthea to see if she knew anything. Anthea had been closer to Finch than he had, which wasn’t surprising. Mycroft knew he didn’t have friends, but he was okay with that. 

All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage. 

He’d always told himself that, and he wasn’t awful at keeping true to it, excepting when it came to Sherlock.

Finally, at 1:30 Mycroft decided it was time to stop procrastinating. He didn’t even know why he was procrastinating, nor did he know why he was so nervous about it. 

And sure, maybe that tiny crush he harbored on the man was just growing. He was just so kind to Sherlock, and he was more than a little attractive, and his smile was blindingly brilliant.

So sure, if the tiny crush wasn’t quite so tiny anymore, then who was Mycroft to blame? Lestrade. That’s who he’d blame. Damn attractive bastard. 

Thank god he didn’t have to see the man on regular basis, or he really would be royally screwed.

“Anthea?” He asked, coming out of his contemplative stupor. “If you could go over with me what we know about Finch’s disappearance?”

Anthea gave him a smile that was just a little too knowing for Mycroft’s tastes, and launched into a discussion about how Finch just hadn’t shown up for work one day, and hadn’t shown up any day since. 

2:00 came, and still no Lestrade. Mycroft was practically fidgeting in his chair. Anthea looked like she was about to cry from how much she was trying not to laugh.

“Sir,” She supplied helpfully, “Not everyone is as punctual as you are.”

“Yes, I realize that.” Mycroft nearly snapped.

“Mycroft, as your friend, I have to tell you that you’re gonna be fine.” She looked more amused than anything. 

A man who was dressed like he could be in MI5 walked into Mycroft’s office after a short knock on the door. 

“Sir, there is a Gregory Lestrade here to see you.”

“Ah,” Mycroft said, finally relaxing, and yet also having all of his nerves double, “Send him in.”

Lestrade was dressed in a long black trench coat, the same one that Mycroft saw him in the first time he met him.

“Hey.” He gave Mycroft an easy smile. Mycroft smiled back, but it wasn’t easy, or even natural for Mycroft. 

“Detective Inspector. Sit.” 

Lestrade sat, glancing around at the impersonal office around him, looking warm, pleasant, and rather out of place for such a room. 

“Anthea has told me that you found one Katherine Finch.” Mycroft skipped any pleasantries, and jumped straight to business. 

“Yeah, she turned up in some bloke’s backyard. Scared his girlfriend to death when she saw the body.”

“Who’s backyard?” Mycroft asked, looking up from the file that Lestrade had shoved over to his side of the desk. 

“Tobias Duncan, girlfriend Amelia May. They live over on Friar Street.”

“What do you know of Ms. May?” Mycroft was already deducing in his head.

“Yeah, that’s what we thought at first, but she did seem genuinely upset at the fact that a dead woman turned up in her boyfriend’s yard. Duncan isn’t any much more suspicious.”

Mycroft peered at the pictures that Lestrade had provided him. “Did Ms. May happen to have been wearing bright red lipstick the day you found the body?”

“Uh,” Lestrade’s face scrunched up, trying to remember what the woman was wearing. “Yeah, I think so. Yeah,” He said with more confidence, “She did, I remember, because she was sobbing into Duncan’s shoulder, and there was lipstick all over his shirt. I assume this means she did it?” 

“Look at Ms. Finch’s face, Detective.” His tone might have come off a little more derisive than he intended.

Lestrade did, and as he did so, he started humming, slowing starting to sing under his breath.

“And all the roads we have to walk are winding, and all the lights that lead us there are blinding. There are many things that I would like to say to you, but I don’t know how. Because maybe, you’re gonna be the one that saves me. And after all, you’re my wonderwall. Today-”

“Was gonna be the day, but they’ll never throw it back to you. By now you should’ve somehow realized what you’re not to do. I don’t believe that anybody feels the way I do, about you now.” Mycroft’s voice was rusty at first.

“And all the roads we have to walk are winding,” They sang together, “And all the lights that lead us there are blinding. There are many things I would like to say to you, but I don’t know how. Because maybe, you’re gonna be the one that saves me. And after all, you’re my wonderwall.” As they finished together, Lestrade looked curiously at Mycroft, a slow grin forming on his face. 

“Didn’t think you to be an Oasis fan, Mr. Holmes.”

“Mycroft. Please. As for what you said, yes. Many people would have that opinion, but I happened upon their music in high school. A rather tough time for me if you could imagine. Someone of my intelligence, appearance, and weight doesn’t tend to do well around teenagers. That band was a bright spot on my rather dreary existence.”

Lestrade snorted. “Yeah they were bound to tease you about the whole thing where you’re smarter than the rest of them. Kids are jealous dickheads. But teasing you about your looks? Sure you’re no Jude Law, but you’re not that bad looking. And you have to be a good twenty pounds lighter than me. You can’t be one to complain about your weight.”

Mycroft stared at him in stunned silence. “You- Lestrade-”

“Greg. Please.” He teased.

“Gregory. I assure you I was nothing to look at in high school. Not that that changed much over the years. I simply got less awkward.”

“But-”

“You were here to talk about Ms. Finch. I believe you’ll find that Ms. May was having an affair, specifically with Ms. Finch, as proved by the smudging of bright red lipstick right near her mouth. Ms. Finch probably tried to get Ms. May to break up with Mr. Duncan, and the argument got violent. Please, have a good day Detective Inspector.” Having Lestrade call him ‘not that bad looking’, and then trying to argue with him about his weight became too much for Mycroft. 

He could almost see Anthea face palming in the background. 

“Right. Sorry, uh. Yeah. I’ll be leaving.” He stood, but paused. “I’m… not sorry actually.”

“Excuse me?” 

“Yeah, bloody hell, Mycroft, you really should stop beating yourself up about this sorta stuff. Oh don’t give me that look,” He chastened when Mycroft tried to interrupt, “I personally think you’re doing fine. You’re skinnier than me, you’re making a shit ton more money than me, hell, the only thing I’ve got going on you is that I’m just friendlier. People don’t see the real you, Mycroft. I know that you’re likable somewhere in there.” He paused, wondering perhaps, if he’d given away too much. He smiled suddenly.

“Please, have a good day Mr. Holmes.”

He walked out without another word.

Anthea rushed out after him, and as the door closed, Mycroft could hear her dissolving into giggles. 

Oh Mycroft really was royally screwed.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg walked out of the office, sweating profusely. Anthea followed him quickly, laughing her ass off.

“What the hell are you laughing for?” He asked, hissing through his teeth, “I just sassed the fucking Brithish Government himself.”

“Exactly,” She barely choked out, “You sassed Mycroft Holmes and there’s no chance in hell you aren’t getting away with it.”

“And why is that exactly?” They were starting to get stares. Laughing wasn’t common in these offices. 

Anthea calmed down just enough to tell him: “That’s for me to know, and you to find out.”  
He stared at her until she stopped laughing.

“Greg, trust me, you’re good. He needed that. He really has been hard on himself, and if you could get Sherlock to stop teasing him about his weight… that’d go a long way to help.”

“That bullshit’s Sherlock’s fault?” Greg felt anger deep in his stomach. 

“Sherlock uses Mycroft’s insecurities against him when he knows things aren’t going his way. It’s not nice, and it’s unfortunately effective.” Greg could see that Anthea genuinely cared for her boss. 

“Yeah. I’ll have a chat with Sherlock about that when I get back to the office. He’ll probably be waiting there for me, the bastard.” And with that, Greg walked back through the corporate maze of offices, and back into the winter chill of London. Contemplating what had just happened on the cab ride back to Scotland Yard, Greg realized that he genuinely cared for the elder Holmes as well. He hadn’t known him for long, but the man had a strange allure to him that Greg couldn’t quite explain. Perhaps he’d ask John about it. Perhaps he’d ask his wife. He shook the thought off as soon as he’d had it. While Sherlock was definitely right, his wife was cheating on him with the gym teacher, Greg couldn’t help but to stay with her. Perhaps, he’d thought to himself on many an occasion, if he showed to her how much he genuinely cared for her, she’d come back, and realize what a mistake she’d made.   
He knew it was stupid. But he truly loved Beatrice. However stupid it was to do so, he loved his wife. 

Greg was close to tears thinking about it. He shook his head, and looked out thoughtlessly into the life of London traffic. 

Almost a half an hour later found Greg striding confidently into the Yard, ready to face Sherlock and his onslaught of questions. 

He was there, just as Greg had suspected. John was standing next to him, looking half apologetic, half curious.

“So?” Sherlock prodded, as soon as Greg had opened the door of his office, “How’d it go? Did you remember Oasis, did Mycroft like you?”

“You know what?” Greg said turning to look at Sherlock, “Maybe I shouldn’t do this.”

“It went badly, what did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything. It’s you that did something, and I won’t do this unless you fix it.” Greg could feel the power in his hands. 

“What? That’s idiotic, I did nothing.”

“Your brother. He’s ‘bout twenty pounds lighter than I am if I were to hedge a guess. Still, he’s self-conscious about his weight. Who’s fault do you think that is Sherlock.” Greg was turned squarely to face Sherlock, fire in his eyes. 

Sherlock stopped. Paused. 

“So here’s the deal. You stop teasing your brother about his weight, and I’ll keep doing this for you. Are you clear?”

Sherlock did nothing but blink.

“I asked: Are. You. Clear?” Greg felt bold.

“I- yes. Yes you are. I will stop.” Sherlock responded sheepishly. 

“Good. John, I’d like you talk to you privately.” 

“Yeah, sure.” John followed him into his office, grinning back at Sherlock, still looking cowed.

“What’s up?” John asked as the door closed behind him.

“What might Anthea mean when she says that my sassing Mycroft won’t have any repercussions? I asked what she meant, and she only said that that was for her to know and for me to find out. I swear the Holmes cryptic-ness has rubbed off on her.”

John shrugged, but something in his eyes said he had an idea. 

“Come on, John, I’m a bloody detective I can see you’re lying, what was she on about?”

“That’s for her to know, and you to find out.” John had an impish gleam to his eye. 

Greg groaned, running his hands through his hair as if scratching his head. It was quite Sherlockian. He sighed. “What about Bea?” The words settled on his tongue, but they felt foreign and sour, like he was committing an awful sin.

“Bea?” John shifted uncomfortably, knowing where this was going.

“Beatrice. My wife. I’m not an idiot, John, I know Sherlock’s right. I know she’s cheating on me with the damnable gym teacher. I just feel like… I shouldn’t give up on her. Not yet. God. I love her, but I know I shouldn’t.”

“Greg, I’m not the one that you should talk to about this.”

“I know, but, I just need… I need someone to talk to.”

“You really think the guy who’s been in too many failed relationships to count should tell you what to do?” John chuckled softly. “You really think,” He continued on, even quieter, “The guy who’s been pining after Sherlock for months without telling him should tell you what to do?”

Greg looked up from his desk, surprise coming to his expression, and as it ebbed away: “Sherlock? Seriously? What happened to the whole ‘not gay’ thing?” He joked.

“Come on, Greg,” John scoffed, face red, “You of all people should know that bisexuality is a thing.”

Surprise came again to Greg’s face. “You, uh, you know about that huh?”

“Sherlock told me.” 

“Course the bastard’d know.” 

John laughed, longer than he should’ve, relieved for whatever reason. “You’re the first one I’ve told, so, uh, no telling anyone, you know?”

“Course. Long as the same goes for me. Sherlock notwithstanding. Haven’t even told my wife about it. S’pose I should, but somehow it feels like she’ll just react badly. Don’t see why it should matter, liking blokes the same as girls. It’d matter to her though.” A bitter expression passed over him for a moment before it cleared, and he stood. “Good talk, John. Thanks, truly.”

John nodded kindly, smiling at his friend. 

The whole ordeal had went even better than Greg could have hoped for.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft ignored Anthea decisively as she reentered the room. It was childish, sure, but so was laughing at someone who just got… humiliated? Somehow, Gregory Lestrade had humiliated him while complimenting him. It was very confusing to Mycroft. 

Had Gregory meant what he said? He certainly seemed to, but with the amount of pain that he’d went through in high school, he couldn’t ever be too certain. 

He pushed the thought of Greg to the back of his mind, and continued with the paperwork he had to finish.

And by the end of the day, all thought of Greg had been successfully eliminated from his mind. 

That was, until he was halfway home, and the man himself texted him.

Hey, I got your number from Sherlock, hope that’s okay. Would you want to grab drinks Saturday, or whenever you’re free? –GL 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, Gregory wanted to get drinks? Thoughts swirled in his head, trying to figure out the context of the sudden question. 

Did Gregory like him?

He pushed the thought out of his head just as quickly as it had arrived. It was positively idiotic to think that, the man was married to a woman that cheated on him. He likely knew about the cheating, and yet continues to stay with her. The only logical explanation for that would be that he truly did love her. And besides, despite what Gregory had told him today, nothing about him would make him attractive to a potential partner. 

So that left two options. Gregory was just messing with him, giving him false hope where there was none to begin with, or the man really did want to befriend him. 

What an odd thought. 

*:*:*:*:*

 

Saturday at three would work. Thank you for the invitation. –MH was the response that Greg got from Mycroft as he was heading back to his apartment. 

Greg was smiling as he let himself into apartment 204, the one he’d claimed as his own for twenty years now.

“Hey Bea.” 

“You seem happy.” She remarked, looking up from the telly program that she usually was watching when Greg got home from work. 

“Yeah, you know how Sherlock’s got a brother?” When Bea nodded, Greg continued, “Mycroft, so I went to his office today, to figure out the Finch case, and turns out he’s not got as much a stick up his arse as I thought. He’s a nice guy, we’re going out for drinks on Saturday.”

“That’s nice.” She turned her attention back to the program, ending the conversation decisively. Greg sighed, some of the excitement for Saturday deflating out of him. 

“And all the roads we have to walk are winding, and all the lights that lead us there are blinding.” Greg muttered, walking the short distance from the door to the couch, plopping himself down near his wife. 

“Whatcha singing?” Greg knew she was only asking out of being polite.

“Wonderwall. Oasis. Mycroft likes it.”

“Mm.”

This effectively ended all discussion that night. 

*:*:*:*:*

 

The next day, Friday, was spent for Greg wrapping up the Kate Finch case. Amelia May confessed tearfully, soon after Greg brought her in for questioning. It was tiring, and frankly not much was getting him through the day. He was bitter at the end of the day, ready to take out his anger on anyone and everyone.

And Greg made a mistake.

His wife had been asking him to clean the dishes. Greg had been eating. 

“Greg, could you clean the dishes?” She asked for the fourth time.

“Just- hang on! I’m eating, Beatrice.”

And two minutes later: “Dishes, Greg!”

“Bloody hell, can I get ten damn minutes to eat? I had a crap day at work, and maybe I’d like to relax for a few minutes before I have to do shit!”

“Yeah, well maybe I had a crap day at work too, and I’d like to live in a clean environment!”

Greg scoffed, “Sure you had a crap day at work, all you bloody well do is fuck the gym teacher.”

“I- get out!” Beatrice screamed, obviously close to tears.

“Bea, I didn’t-”

“I said get out!”

Greg hurried out, breathing heavy, and mind buzzing.

John can I crash at your place? –GL 

Well we have to get the bloody place fumigated because of one of Sherlock’s stupid science experiments –JW 

Another idea came to mind, but Greg knew he would come to regret it.

He texted Mycroft.

Would I be allowed to crash at your place tonight? –GL 

He stood in the chill of the winter, without even a coat, for a few more minutes, waiting for a reply. 

What would the reasoning behind this be? –MH 

Can I explain later, in person? –GL 

He could almost feel Mycroft pause. 

Of course. Do you need an address or shall I have someone pick you up? –MH

Well seeing as I have no money on me right now, picking me up would be fantastic. –GL 

A tear dripped on his phone, causing it to spam random letters into the text box. Thankfully it didn’t send. 

A car will be there momentarily. Do you need anything else? –MH

No, thank you so much. –GL 

Greg was practically blubbering by the time the familiar black car pulled smoothly up to Greg. Mycroft himself stepped out, looking almost concerned. He took off his suit jacket and wrapped it around Greg. “Get in, it’s freezing out.”

Greg did as he said, without a word. 

Mycroft’s gaze was warm, for a Holmes. 

Without prompt: “I fucked up. Mentioned the gym teacher to Bea. She kicked me out.” Pause. “Listen, I can go to a hotel if you need me to. It’s totally-”

“I wouldn’t think of it, Gregory.” He hesitated, appearing to flounder for something else to say.

“What am I supposed to do, Mycroft?” Greg whispered. 

“Why would you ask me? What makes you think that I have the answers, Gregory?”

“You remind me of a guy I- I was friends with in Uni. He always had all the right answers.” Greg sniffed.

“Then why don’t you ask him instead of a man like me?” Greg could almost see that Mycroft was trying to make a joke, but it came off flat.

“We don’t really talk anymore.” Greg was sure that he looked pitiful, sitting in the backseat of a nice car, shaking, crying, with a fancy suit jacket thrown across his shoulders. 

Mycroft’s house was much simpler than he expected it to be. A small house- though guarded better than most- with a rather quaint light blue front door.

“What’s with the door?” Greg laughed feebly. 

“Yes, I thought you might enjoy that. My mother forced me to paint it. You’ll find various other things similar around the house. If you want, you can stay in the ‘cheery’ yellow guest bedroom.” Greg could hear the sarcasm dripping from Mycroft’s voice. He laughed, more heartily this time. 

“Thanks for this, Mycroft. I kinda needed it.” Greg had finally stopped crying, but he was still hiccupping occasionally. 

“Of course.” And Greg could tell that Mycroft meant it genuinely, so he allowed the man to lead him through the blue door, and into his home.


	5. Chapter 5

Greg didn’t know what to do. Standing in the middle of Mycroft’s living room, sopping and dripping onto the carpet, he looked around. It was more homely than Greg would have expected it to be. More homely, in fact, than his own apartment was. There was a painting of some lilies, Calla Lilies, Greg was able to identify because of a case that Sherlock had solved involving Calla Lilies. The rest of the room was a pale blue color, but the painting added a splash of interest. Greg walked towards the canvas, eyeing how the paint was layered thick on it, but the detail was impeccable. Glancing down to the bottom, the signature was illegible, but something about it seemed familiar to Greg. 

“I don’t really know why I keep that around.” Mycroft commented, walking up silently behind Greg. 

“What do you mean?”

“It’s really not that good.”

“Damn you’re critical. You willing to sell it?” Greg joked.

Mycroft waved his hand. “You can have it. It’s terribly sentimental of me to keep around.”

“How so?”

“It’s an old painting of mine, something I did back in secondary school.”

“You did this?” Greg gaped. “It’s fantastic, Mycroft! You really ought to stop being so hard on yourself.” If Mycroft weren’t a Holmes, Greg would have said he blushed. 

“Take it then.” Mycroft told him, voice soft. “I’d like you to have it.”

“I- thank you.” For a moment they both stood there, heads full of thoughts. 

Mycroft coughed, “In any case. You should change, I can pull out an old t-shirt of mine, if you’d like.”

“Yeah, that’d be great. Thank you, again. For this.”

Mycroft nodded, and turned to find Greg something to wear. 

Greg spent the time staring closely at the lilies in the painting, trying to imagine a teenaged Mycroft painting them. 

“Gregory.” As Greg turned around, he saw Mycroft holding out a plain black t-shirt and a pair of jeans.

“Uh, thanks.” Greg really didn’t know what to say in this situation. 

Mycroft nodded, “The restroom is just around that corner to the right.” 

Greg thanked him again, and turned to find the bathroom.

*:*:*:*:*

 

Mycroft stood awkwardly, never quite feeling this way in his own house. He turned to look at his own painting, trying to find what Gregory found so fascinating in it. 

He couldn’t seem to find it.

He was interrupted by the strumming of a guitar. “She’s electric. She’s in a family full of eccentrics, she’s done things I’ve never expected. And I need more time. She’s got a sister. And God only knows how I’ve missed her. And on the palm of her hand is a blister. And I need more time.”

Mycroft walked into the room that Gregory was playing ‘She’s Electric’ in, a genuine smile on his face.

“And I want you to know,” They harmonized, “I’ve got my mind made up now, but I need more time. And I want you to say, do you know what I’m saying. But I need more. ‘Cause I’ll be you and you’ll be me. There’s lots and lots for us to see, lots and lots for us to do. She is electric, can I be electric too?”

Gregory played about half the guitar solo, before strumming one last time, and stopping with a huge grin on his face.

“See,” He told Mycroft, “Now I know how to get you to get out of your shell a bit.” Mycroft shook his head in wonder.

“Whose guitar is this anyway?” Gregory asked, looking down at the instrument. “It’s not yours, you don’t have the blisters on your fingers to show for playing it, along with the fact that there was dust coating it when I picked it up. Don’t look so shocked,” Gregory looked mock-hurt when Mycroft did indeed look surprised at the deduction. 

“I am a detective, Holmes. Just because I’m not as good as you doesn’t mean that I can’t figure some things out on my own.”

“Then I apologize, Detective Inspector. It was my father’s. He was always hoping I’d find a hobby that didn’t involve politics. That’s why he signed me up for the art class that produced that painting of the lilies that you’re so enamored with.”

“My dad always had me cook. I was too interested in murder as a kid, my dad tried to get me to become a chef instead of a detective, if you’ll see how well that turned out. Not that I’m a bad cook, mind you.”

Mycroft’s heart dropped, soared at the same time. Well fuck. The very man he was crushing on (if Mycroft dared to use such a childish term, dared to even admit his feelings) was a good cook. He was truly screwed now. 

“You know what, I’ll make dinner. It’s the least I can do for you, after letting me stay in your house.”

Mycroft knew he should insist against it, “Then I’m looking forward to your artistry.”  
That’s not what he meant to say. Damn him and his stupid feelings. This was why he always looked up to Vulcans as a boy. But damn him and his stupid human feelings. 

“Great, I’ll go see what you’ve got in your fridge.”

Mycroft cringed internally. He opened his mouth to try to get Gregory to stop, but he’d already left the room.

He heard laughter from the kitchen. Mycroft sighed, and walked towards it.

“You’ve got,” Gregory laughed, “You’ve got two ketchup packets and an apple.”

“I don’t tend to get home early enough to make myself dinner. And if I do, I’ll stop by the grocery store on the way home.”

“Now Mycroft. I may be a good cook, but I’m uncertain that I’ll be able to make something out of two ketchup packets and an apple.” Gregory teased him.

“I can send someone to get groceries if you wish?”

“Sure, what d’you want me to make?”

“Whatever you would enjoy.”

“Yeah, but I’m asking you.”

“And I’m declining to answer.”

“Then I’ll deduce you.” And Gregory put on such a good impression of his little brother that Mycroft couldn’t help but to smile.

“Make whatever you’d like, call 692-263-4734 when you know what you’ll need. They’ll run to the store and get it, I’ll be showering if that’s alright.”

“Yeah, course.” Gregory had a gleam in his eyes that told Mycroft that he should be careful.

*:*:*:*:*

 

As soon as Greg heard the shower turn on and he could be somewhat certain that Mycroft wasn’t about to sneak up on him, he pulled his phone out to text Sherlock.

What’s Mycroft’s favourite meal? –GL 

Chocolate cake, why? –SH 

Yeah, but actual meal, Sherlock. In any case, I’m at his house and I’m making dinner. –GL 

Like I said, chocolate cake. Raspberry sauce. Why are you at his house? –SH 

None of your business. So, chocolate cake with raspberry sauce. I can do that. –GL 

Greg put his phone back in his pocket, ignoring the incessant buzzing that it was doing, Sherlock trying to pry his secrets out of him. He knew what would happen if Sherlock found out that he and his wife had had a falling out. He would just use it against him, while John was in the background trying to get him to shut up and apologize.

Greg sighed, pulling his phone back out.

Did your wife kick you out? –SH 

He ignored it, and went to the phone icon.

692-263-4734

A man with a Scottish accent picked up.

“This is Wilson.”

“Hey Wilson, this is Greg Lestrade, I’m with Mycroft, I need a couple things picked up from the store.”

“Yes sir.” Wilson didn’t seem to question taking orders from someone on behalf of Mycroft. Not for the first time, Greg wondered how powerful Mycroft really was. 

“Alright, I need semisweet chocolate chips, butter, flour, eggs, sugar, frozen raspberries, cornstarch, corn syrup, whipped topping, and fresh raspberries. You got all that? I can repeat it if you need me to.” Greg asked, trying to be polite. 

“No sir, I’ll have your ingredients to you as soon as I can.”

And with that, Wilson hung up.

Mycroft appeared from around the corner, toweling his hair dry, wearing a simple cardigan and jeans.

“Hey! Look at you, Mycroft Holmes, dressing down for once.” Greg teased. 

“I don’t sleep in a three piece suit if that’s what you were assuming.” 

“Right, I just called Wilson. Said he’ll be right here.” 

“And what will le plat du jour be?”

“Ah, but that’ll be a surprise now, since you wouldn’t tell me what you wanted.” Greg flashed a smile at the other man, pulling an apron on that he’d found in the pantry. 

“Well then. If you need anything, I’ll be here.” Mycroft settled himself down onto the armchair, picking up a book from the table beside it. From the small coat of dust on the cover, it’d obviously been a while since Mycroft had gotten a break long enough to enjoy some reading time. 

A few minutes passed, before a bright red haired man appeared at the door, offering a bag of groceries. Greg skidded to the door before Mycroft could get there, and grabbing the bag before he could see inside. 

“Pay the man, Mycroft. Remember, I don’t have money.” Greg’s voice was mirthful, feeling much better at the prospect of his dessert dinner. 

Wilson had an eyebrow raised, but neglected to ask any questions. Mycroft appeared to barely restrain from rolling his eyes, although he seemed in a better mood than he had been in their few previous meetings. 

Turning the knob on the oven to 165°C, he busied himself with cooking, not thinking once about the state of his marriage.


	6. Chapter 6

Only once did Mycroft try to sneak into the kitchen to see what Greg was making, but Greg was able to get him to leave by threatening to beat him across the head with the spoon his was using to stir the raspberry sauce. 

“You know, I seem to keep having to tell you this, but I am a detective. I bloody well know when someone’s sneaking up on me. It’s not all Sherlock that’s solving my cases.”

“Yes, fair enough.” Mycroft held his hands up in surrender, and walked back into the sitting room.

It was during the period where Greg was waiting for the cake to cool to put the chocolate glaze on it that he got a text from Bea.

Greg, we need to talk. Where are you, you aren’t at Sherlock’s. –BL

We do need to talk, but maybe you should have tried that before kicking me out of the house. I’m not the one cheating on my spouse. –GL 

That’s fair, but you don’t need to shove it in my face, I feel bad enough. –BL 

Do you? Cause it didn’t seem that way when you continue doing it. –GL   
It’s not like you’re completely innocent, I see you sneaking glances at other women. –BL

It’s like you barely know me, Bea. –GL 

How? How do I ‘barely know you’? –BL 

We need to talk, at least on the phone. I’m calling you. –GL 

“I need to make a phone call. I swear, if you try to sneak into the kitchen while I’m outside, I’ll stab you with the steak knife.”

“Noted.”

Greg stepped out of the house, onto the tiny covered portion of the porch.

“Beatrice.” He called his wife, fearing her to be his soon-to-be ex-wife. 

“Greg, this is ridiculous, where are you? We should be doing this in person.”

“I’m at a friend’s house, alright?”

“I’ve called Yvonne and Charles, they say they haven’t seen you.” Bea sounded accusatory. 

“I have other friends, you know.” Greg snapped back.

“Who?” She scoffed.

“Mycroft Holmes. He’s allowed me to stay the night.”

Bea sighed. “Fine. What do you want to do about this, Greg? Because I’m only seeing one option.”

“We can- please.” It suddenly seemed more important than anything to keep his wife around. 

“Greg, I apparently don’t ‘know you’ but I sure as hell know you well enough to know that with this out in the open, with me telling you that at this point, I don’t see myself stopping seeing Ben, you’re not going to be happy. You haven’t been happy since last Christmas. That’s why I was so surprised to see you happy coming home a couple days ago.”

“Bea I-”

“No, listen. Are you happy right now?”

“Of course I am!”

“Honestly?” 

There was a pause from Greg this time. “Listen, Bea, I’ve got a cake that I have to get ready. We can-”

“Oh so you’re baking for this ‘Mycroft’ guy now? Who is he really? Who is she?”

“What? The hell are you going on about?”

“You’re on a fucking date, aren’t you?”

“See this just proves how well you know me. It wouldn’t bother me a bit if I were on a date with a guy.”

“Oh so you’re gay now.” She laughed cruelly.

“It’s called bisexuality, Beatrice! This is why I never told you, because you’d just get pissed and try to use it against me. No, I don’t care that I’m bi, no you aren’t going to bother me with it, and do you know why?” Greg felt himself snap. “Because we’re done. I don’t want to see you again. I’ll come by the house while you’re at work tomorrow to get my stuff, and drop off my key then. I’ve had enough of your bullshit.” Greg hung up the phone as he felt tears start to pour down his face. 

“Fuck.” He muttered under his breath. He wanted to call Beatrice back, apologize, something. But he knew.

It really was over now. 

He headed back inside, trying his best to look happy. He failed miserably. 

“Gregory…”

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Really.” Greg plastered on a smile that both of them knew was fake.

“Gregory, if you need anything, you can just ask.”

“About that…” Greg winced, knowing that this was going to be difficult to ask, “Could I possibly stay here for a little bit longer than a day- just until I can find a cheap enough apartment, I promise I won’t be a bother, and I swear I’ll do everything I can to help out around the house.”

Understanding found its way to Mycroft’s eyes. “Of course, Gregory. Don’t worry about it, stay as long as you need.” 

“Thank you. Seriously, I… I kind of needed that.” Greg laughed feebly. He smiled, this time it appeared to be genuine. “I’ve got a mystery meal to serve. It’s just about done.”

“I look forward to it.” 

Between the call from his about-to-be ex-wife, and the fact that a cake took a while to bake and cool, it was nearly nine thirty by the time Greg had finished everything. 

“Alright, Mycroft.” Greg wasn’t pretending to be happy anymore, he just was. With a grin, and an added flourished bow, he led Mycroft to the kitchen, where the cake stood.

Mycroft’s eyes widened. “You-”

“Chocolate cake with raspberry sauce.”

“You texted Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice was accusatory, but pleased.

“And that’s how I do my deducing.” Greg grinned. Mycroft laughed- actually laughed, and there’s glee in his eyes. “Well then, Gregory. It would be rude of me to decline.”

Greg nodded, “Obviously your only reason for accepting the cake.”

“Clearly.” Mycroft grabs two plates from the cupboard and allows Greg to slice the cake and serve it.

Mycroft appears to enjoy the cake- going so far as to tell Greg that it nearly tastes better than his mother’s.

“Now I’m just insulted.” Greg told Mycroft, pretending to be hurt, “There’s no way your mother’s baking is better than mine.”

“Perhaps she’ll take you up on that someday.”

Greg, perhaps forgetting himself and his situation for a minute, told Mycroft, “Are you saying you’re going to introduce me to your mother?” 

Now Mycroft truly did blush. It started at his neck, and creeped up to rest mid-cheek. “I never-”

“No, that was, that was a joke!” Greg waved his hands at Mycroft as if trying to erase his mistake. “Sorry. That was a shit joke, I wasn’t thinking. I should really just shut up shouldn’t I?”

“Probably.” But his words were kind. The red was receding from his face, back down his neck, and underneath his cardigan. 

They finished their cake in relative comfort, chatting about nothing in particular. Greg forgot, momentarily, about Bea.


	7. Chapter 7

As Mycroft led Greg to the guest bedroom, Greg had the sneaking suspicion that Mycroft felt bad for him. It wasn’t a difficult assumption to make, coming from the fact that Mycroft obviously knew that he and Beatrice were done for, for good now. He wasn’t dumb, he knew how smart Mycroft was. He knew that saying ‘I need to stay until I find an apartment’ meant that Mycroft knew that he and Beatrice weren’t together anymore. Hurt twinged in Greg’s chest.

 

“That... Is definitely a cheery yellow room. You weren’t kidding.” Greg mused when he saw the guest bedroom.

 

“Yes, like I said, Mummy decided that I paint it because it gave the house a more ‘homely’ feel. If you don’t like this bedroom, I can always pull out the futon in the other room.” Mycroft appeared to be teasing him, what with the twinkling eyes, and the suggesting that a 48 year old man take the futon.

 

“I’ll be fine in here. I think the cheer’ll do me some good.”

 

*:*:*:*:*

 

 

It was bright and early the next morning that Greg had to go into work, and he wasn’t surprised to see that Mycroft was already up and looking like he was ready to go.

 

He found his clothes folded on the kitchen table, perfectly dry.

 

“You’re a saint, thank you.” Greg picked them up, not even seeing Mycroft’s embarrassment.

 

Greg wasn’t dreading going to work, per se. But he worked as a detective, he knew people would see strait through his charade of ‘everything’s fine’.

 

Greg left the house with a short goodbye, noting that Mycroft was eating the leftover cake from the night before.

 

He took a cab to the Yard, not entirely certain what he would tell people when he got there. He would tell Sally about him and his wife, but he had no clue what he’d tell the rest of his team.

 

Sally would be the first to notice, Greg knew. She was always very perceptive when it came to this sort of thing.

 

Greg was right, of course.

 

“You look like crap.” Sally went right out and told him, the minute she laid eyes on him.

 

“Yeah well, the idea of getting a divorce will do that to you.” Greg shifted uncomfortably

 

“Oh my god, are you alright?”

 

“Yeah, It’s been a long time coming. I’ll be staying at a friend’s house for a bit, but I do want to try finding a small apartment eventually. Actually, I’ll have to duck out at the end of the day to pick up all my stuff from my- Beatrice’s place, would you mind covering for me then?”

 

“Of course not, just tell me what I have to do… And get rid of him before then?”

 

Greg turned his head to find the person in question, but he already knew.

 

“Sherlock, what are you doing here? I don’t have a case for you.”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but John cut him off. “Well, we have nowhere to go until four this afternoon, seeing as this idiot nearly killed us all, so Sherlock elected to drag me here to see if you have anything. Literally anything. Please, I’m desperate for him to have something to do.”

 

“You didn’t sleep in your own bed last night.” Sherlock deduced.

 

“Yeah, so you want something to do?”

 

“It was still a bed, though it was too firm for you. And that would mean your wife kicked you out. I was right, John.”

 

“And I told you not to pry. Really sorry, Greg.”

 

“Like I was just telling Sally, it was a long time coming.”

 

“So, Sherlock said that you were staying at Mycroft’s?”

 

“Yeah, you know, it’s a lot different there than I would have thought.”

 

“So… not a huge creepy place then?”

 

“No it’s a pretty small home, and it’s got a nice blue door, and- did you know that Mycroft used to paint?”

 

“Did he?” John sounded, unsurprisingly, rather shocked.

 

“Yeah, he painted these beautiful lilies, never woulda thought. Anyway, enough about Mycroft. There’s a couple cold cases in my office, go nuts Sherlock.”

 

Greg settled in for the long day of paperwork, finally allowing himself to admit that, perhaps the divorce wasn’t the end of the world. His wife hadn’t loved him for a long time.

 

He got up from his test early to go to his house- his wife’s house now. Soon to be ex-wife’s house. Gloom settled back over him, after finally getting rid of it through burying himself in his work.

 

“Good luck.” Sally sympathized as he left the Yard.

 

He’d need it, to get through this.

 

Unlocking the door of 204 for what he knew was going to be the last time, Greg sniffed, trying to keep his emotions in check.

 

He stared at the apartment for a moment, before steeling himself, and starting to put everything of his in several cardboard boxes that Bea had been kind enough to put out for him.

 

A stack of books by the bed, a couple piles of clothes, a mug, a collection of DVD’s, some memorabilia from his college days, and a few things that had belonged to his parents later, Greg balanced three boxes in his hands, dropping his key on the side table with some difficulty. He found his way out of the apartment, blessing his luck for not running into anyone that might know him and ask him questions he wasn’t ready to answer.

 

Hailing a cab, Greg wondered how he got to that point. Moving out of what used to be his home, because of some guy he hadn’t ever met.

 

He sighed, shoving the boxes into the taxicab. He gave Mycroft’s address to the driver, talking just a moment to inspect him, a habit that had developed because of the cabbie from the ‘Study in Pink’ case. Mycroft wasn’t at his house when Greg got there, and he took pause, unsure of how he was supposed to get in. He highly doubted that Mycroft would have a fake rock with a key in it. He’d already unloaded the boxes, and gotten them to the porch.

 

Your house is locked, do you have a way for me to get in? –GL

 

There was a wait before he got a reply, maybe twenty minutes, and Greg just spent the time absentmindedly playing solitaire on his phone.

 

I’ll have someone take you a key, I apologize for the delay- for both the reply and the key. –MH

 

So Greg had no choice but to wait for whomever Mycroft chose to send to rescue him. He got a text from Charles, and old college buddy of his.

 

Hey I heard about you and Beatrice. I’m really sorry about that. If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask. Do you need a place to stay for a while –CT

 

No, I’m staying with another friend for now, but if he gets tired of me, I’ll just say. I’ll be alright, I knew this was coming. Thanks. –GL

 

They chatted for some time about nothing in particular, Greg knew that Charles was trying to distract him, but he didn’t care. He was a little grateful. Finally a car pulled up- actually a nice turquoise color, nothing Greg would have expected from any one of Mycroft’s employees. He sent off one last text to Charles saying that he needed to go for the time, and slipped his phone into his pocket as he stood.

 

A shorter man jumped out of the car, smiling brightly, and eying Greg as if he knew more about him than he should.

 

“Hey, you must be Greg Lestrade. I’m Jason Stevens, Mycroft sent me to sort you out.”

 

Greg blinked at the man’s exuberant personality, but shook his hand nonetheless

 

“So, Mr. Stevens-”

 

“Just Stevens is fine, that’s what Myc used to call me in college, it just caught on.”

 

Greg’s mind reeled at the information he’d just heard. “You knew Mycroft in college? And you call him Myc?”

 

“Sure, why not? Anyway, here’s your key.” He handed him the small metal key, which Greg took gladly.

 

“So what was he like in college?” Greg asked curiously as he turned to unlock the door. He ushered Stevens into the house, refusing to let the man leave before he got something out of him about Mycroft’s college days.

 

“I mean, he wasn’t much different. He was way too obsessed with Star Trek, though.” Stevens laughed. “But what you should be asking,” Stevens got a mischievous gleam to his eyes. “Is what Mycroft was like to date.”

 

Greg balked, unsure of how to respond to this. “You- he- but-”

 

“Oh yeah, he’s gay.” Stevens confirmed, without Greg even asking the question.

 

“But…” Greg didn’t even know what he was trying to object to. “I never thought that Mycroft would have ever dated. I mean, surely you’ve heard his ‘caring is not an advantage’ bullshit.”

 

“Yeah. I mean, even though we had a good break-up, he and this other kid,” Stevens whistled. “It really wasn’t pretty. Mycroft was depressed for weeks, it was awful.”

 

“Wow. I… I don’t know what to say.”

 

“How about ‘What was Mycroft like to date’?” Stevens suggested, teasing, but not malicious.

 

“Sure.” Greg figured it couldn’t hurt, and Mycroft couldn’t be too mad, he was the one who sent Stevens to help him out, he had to expect that this would all get out eventually.

 

“He was adorable. That ‘caring is not an advantage’ thing he does is total bull, like you said. He’s the sweetest, even though he always does everything kind with an air of false nonchalance. On our anniversary, he set up our dorm room with a bunch of flowers, had Frank Sinatra playing softly in the background, and was lounging in his chair as if it was nothing. He gave me this,” He held out his hand to show a black ring around his middle finger. “It stands for asexuality. I used to have a cheap plastic one, but this was much nicer. Its tungsten, which was the subject of a thing we had to do in a chem class we had together, that was how we met. He’d heard me complaining about having to superglue my old one together and he decided that I needed a new one.” Stevens spoke fondly, but not so fondly that Greg might suspect that he still had feelings for Mycroft.

 

Greg just sat there in thought for a moment. He’d never realized that Mycroft ‘the British Government’ Holmes was also the man with the blue door and yellow room, and the man who listened to Oasis and knew all the lyrics, and the man who painted lilies, and a genuine romantic.

 

Honestly, it was kind of cute.


	8. Chapter 8

Greg was so thankful that he didn’t have to go into work the next day. He needed some time alone. There were times that he would be absolutely ecstatic, glad to be rid of a weight that, while he’d known that it’d been on his shoulders, he’d been trying to ignore it for so long that he’d forgotten what it was like to not have it there. But then, quite suddenly, he’d realize how alone he was. He didn’t have his wife anymore. He was rather glad that Mycroft had to work, because if Greg was being honest, he spent the majority if his time in the awfully cheery guest bedroom crying. He really didn’t want Mycroft ‘Caring is not an advantage’ Holmes seeing him like this.

He spent what little time he had left in the day that wasn’t spent sobbing about his pitiful excuse for a life learning how to play ‘Don’t Look Back in Anger’ on guitar. He didn’t hear the door opening, due to Greg’s over-exaggerated guitar solo. He only noticed Mycroft standing in the doorway to the room once he’d finished the solo, and Mycroft started to slowly clap. There was amusement on his face, but his eyes were kind. Greg looked up at him, face flushing with embarrassment.

“There’s no reason to be embarrassed, Gregory, I’m glad that guitar’s found use. And with a man with such impeccable tastes, too.” Something twinkled in his eyes, and he smiled warmly at Greg, something Greg hadn’t ever really expected from Mycroft. No one said anything for a moment, as they found each other looking intensely at the other.

Greg coughed. “Um. I can make dinner again, if you’d like. Just uh, drop by the store or something.”

“Yes of course. I’ll call for Wilson, if that’s-?”

“No, I can go there myself! Besides, I don’t even know what I’m making. Not everyone is quite as disgustingly posh as you are, Mr. Holmes.” Greg teased, putting the guitar back on its stand. An overwhelming urge to leave the house suddenly came over him, as he realized that he hadn’t even barely left the room all day.

“I’m not that posh.” Mycroft argued.

Greg deadpanned. “You go to a club for old men where you sit there silently. That’s just about the epitome of ‘disgustingly posh’.”

Mycroft considered for a moment, “I suppose it is. But if I’m so posh, then,” He swung his coat back on, “Would I go to a simple plebian store with a simple plebian man?”

“Oh I’ll get you for that.” Greg grinned. “But anyway, you really do need to stock your fridge if I’m going to be living here.” Pain flowed smoothly through his chest as he reminded himself that he was alone and practically friendless.

He forced himself to keep his smile. “I mean, if you still want me around.” He ‘joked’.

Mycroft took pause. “Gregory… Greg, you’re getting divorced. I’m not going to kick you out. It’s actually nice to have you around, I have freshly made food, and… well, don’t tell Sherlock, but you do get lonely in my position.” He smiled wryly, “Somehow sitting in a club for old men where you’re forbidden from speaking isn’t quite conducive to making friends. Not that I make an effort with anyone anyway.” He scuffed a shoe on the floor, “You know, Sherlock’s right, I-”

“No! Mycroft, whatever Sherlock’s told you is complete bullshit, and I know damn well you’re smart enough to realize that he’s just trying to manipulate you into doing whatever he wants you to do, and for god’s sake, I know you don’t want me to talk about it, but I heard from Anthea that he’s the one that convinced you that you’re overweight or that you need to diet. Christ Mycroft, you look like a beanpole, this isn’t healthy. And thank god I was able to convince Sherlock that he shouldn’t tell you bullshit like that, and-” Greg’s rambling was mercifully cut off by Mycroft.

“Gregory, I can assure you, whatever you said to Sherlock to get him to stop isn’t going to make him. Yes I know what Sherlock’s doing, but that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. Nothing you, or anyone else says will make him stop what he’s doing.”

Greg opened his mouth to argue, until he thought about the threat he made. If Sherlock were to continue teasing Mycroft about his weight, Greg would stop trying to make friends with Mycroft. And yet his situation had changed dramatically since then. He was now living with the elder Holmes, if he stopped being friends with him now, things would get immensly awkward, and he would have to find somewhere to live much sooner than he had previously anticipated.

But… There was always his standard threat.

“It’s simple, I’ll stop giving him cases.”

Mycroft considered this for a moment. “I’m not sure that’s wise. Sherlock is well aware of his power. If you stop giving him cases, he’ll start using again.” A clouded sadness took over his eyes. Greg had never before realized the range of emotions that Mycroft truly showed on his face, and he didn’t know if it was because Mycroft just hadn’t showed them to him, or if he was being more observant.

“Perhaps. He does have John now, John’s been a fantastic influence on him.”

“I know, but I’m not sure he’s enough to stop Sherlock from simply being petty. He understands that we have conversations like these. He understands our worries… and our insecurities… and he plays them to his advantage. Sherlock isn’t a kind man, I don’t think he’s truly cared about how I feel for a long while, Greg.”

Greg noticed the shortening of ‘Gregory’ that wasn’t common from Mycroft. It pained him to hear something that he knew wasn’t true, but he couldn’t reveal without ruining his chance of really being friends with Mycroft.

“Mycroft… that’s not true.”

Mycroft gave him a scathing look, “Don’t be naïve, Sherlock may care about John, you, Mrs. Hudson. But he’s hated me since I left for University.”

“But that’s not true! Listen, just… just don’t tell Sherlock I told you this, because he’s going to be a dickhead about it, but the day before I came to you about the Finch case, I was talking to Sherlock. He told me that he was worried about you. That you needed a friend. And don’t get me wrong, I’m not being forced to do this or anything! You’re a genuinely good person, a genuinely good friend, and I enjoy hanging out with you, but I wouldn’t have gone up to you in the first place, talked to you about anything but Sherlock, if it weren’t for him telling me that he worried for you.”

Mycroft seemed taken aback, but skeptical. Understanding suddenly dawned on him. “Did Sherlock mention goldfish at all?”

“I think John said something about fish later on… think it might have been a goldfish. Why? What do goldfish have anything to do with this?”

Mycroft clenched his jaw, and suddenly Greg could see why everyone that worked for Mycroft were so scared of him.

“I have to make a call.”

“Oh god, please don’t tell him that I told you anything. If you want to get back at him for doing this, send me away, I’ll find a place to live, but… this is just a bad idea.”

“This whole thing is a bad idea, Lestrade. You don’t know the connotations behind Sherlock trying to…” He floundered for words for the first time that Greg had known him. He looked quite wild, in fact.

“Trying to make you a fucking goldfish.” Greg was taken aback by Mycroft’s sudden angry swearing.

“He’s poking fun at me again, don’t you see? He’s not worried about me being lonely, he’s making fun of it. He somehow found out the one fucking thing that I didn’t want him to know about me, and he’s twisting it and teasing me with it. Shoving it in my face, so that he can ruin everything for me.”

“Hey, I don’t think he’s that shitty,”

“You don’t understand what he’s done.”

“Then help me understand, Mycroft, I’m just trying to help. Just let me help.”

“He seduced my boyfriend in Uni because he was angry that I’d abandoned him. He seduced him so that he could win, and so I would be alone. See how he’s not ‘worried’ about me being lonely, that’s what he wants.”

Greg was speechless. He stepped forward, and wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Mycroft stood motionless and stiff.

When Greg stood back, keeping his hands on Mycroft’s shoulders. In the calmest voice he could muster, Greg told him: “I’m going to speak to Sherlock if that’s okay. I’m going to tell him that I’ll stop giving him cases, and I’m going to tell John to keep him under lock and key if necessary. Mycroft, the fact that you still worry for his wellbeing after him doing that is what makes you such a fantastic person. Why you’re a great man and a good man, whereas Sherlock is barely a great one. Is that okay?”

Mycroft paused, before nodding. Greg hugged him again, briefly, before turning to find his phone.

Mycroft stared after him, a whispered ‘thank you’ stuck in his throat.


	9. Chapter 9

Greg called John first.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“I’m going to say something to Sherlock, and I need you to keep him from doing anything stupid.”

“Okay… How stupid?”

“Going back to drugs stupid.”

“I’m listening.” John suddenly understood the severity of whatever situation Greg had found himself in.

“I’m going to cut Sherlock off. No more cases.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think Sherlock’s being entirely benevolent with his trying to get me to befriend Mycroft.”

“Shit, you found out about the goldfish thing?”

“I- what does that even mean? What is the secret code involving goldfish?”

“Um… Well, don’t freak out about it, but the long and short of it is that Sherlock is trying to set you up with Mycroft. Romantically.”

“Oh my god. He’s even more of an asshole than I thought. No wonder Mycroft was so pissed.”

“Wait, so what were you mad at Sherlock about? Enough so that you’re going to stop giving him cases.”

“You know the story about how Mycroft went off to Uni and Sherlock got pissed, and that’s when they stopped being friends?”

“Vaguely.” John didn’t like the sound of where this was going.

“Mycroft dated two people while he was there. This guy called Stevens- great guy, the break up was clean. Stevens told me that the break up with the other guy was dirty and scary. What I didn’t know until today, was that Sherlock… Sherlock seduced the other guy, so that Mycroft wouldn’t have anyone. So that he’d be alone. And now, I think you might understand where I’m getting pissed about Sherlock ‘trying to set me up with Mycroft’ or some similar bullshit, because there’s probably some ulterior motive there.”

“Jesus that’s… That’s a new low for Sherlock. That’s terrible.”

“Yeah. Go ahead and hand the phone to Sherlock. Watch him carefully.”

Greg heard John calling for Sherlock to ‘get his ass in there’. A few moments later, Sherlock answered, sounding bored and irritated. “What do you want, Lestrade?”

“Sherlock. You’re done. At the Yard. No more cases.”

Silence. “…Why?”

“I’m not going to stand for you being a giant dickhole to your brother.”

“I told you I’d stop mentioning his weight around him.” Sherlock sounded even more irritated at the fact that Greg was ‘wasting his time’.

“But I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about Mycroft’s time at University. He had two partners during the time, if I’m not mistaken. Stevens is one, and the other… Well you got yourself rather well acquainted with him, didn’t you?” Greg slipped effortlessly into Detective Inspector Lestrade mode.

Silence. “You don’t know the full story.”

“Don’t I? Because the way I see it, you seduced Mycroft’s boyfriend to be the petty arsehole that you are.”

“Mycroft abandoned me.” Sherlock spat.

“Oh fucking bullshit, Sherlock.” Greg scoffed.

“You know that’s the reason I started taking drugs.”

“No, Sherlock.” Greg felt the anger boil up inside of him. “You don’t get to blame your brother for using. That’s your fault. Your mistake. You are the one that you need to blame for that. You describe your brother as heartless-”

“He is,”

“No. He has been nothing but kind to me through all of this bullshit, Sherlock. He’s been kind to you, even when you haven’t deserved it. After you ruined him.”

“You think there’s no reason for him being nice to you?” Sherlock laughed cruelly. “It’s because he’s in love with you.”

“Oh god, just shut up!” Greg’s stomach wobbled weirdly. “If, and that’s a big if, he is, then for god’s sake, just let him figure it out on his own! Let him decide if and when he want to tell people. You’re so goddamn caught up in yourself constantly that you can’t realize how other people feel. You don’t just spout out everyone’s secrets, Sherlock. Do you know how fucking difficult it was when you told me that my wife was cheating on me? It took me months to forgive you. And now you’re letting out his secrets because you feel threatened, and you feel the need to take charge of a situation because you’re scared and you need the blame, the attention, and the fault in everyone and anyone but you. You’re terrified that someone’s going to come along and do that same bullshit to you. And there is someone that could do that, and guess what, it’s Mycroft! And yet you don’t see him fucking up your life at every turn of a corner, because he’s an adult. He understands what it’s like to be on the receiving end of that shit, and he realizes that it’s more than a little bit shitty to do to a person. Mycroft is kinder, better, and more fucking human than you could ever aspire to be. So fuck you, you’re never stepping foot in the Yard again, or I’ll have you arrested. Goodbye, Sherlock, I hope you have a frankly shitty life, and while you’re at it, leave John the fuck alone. He deserves better than you.”

Greg angrily stabbed at the end call button.

He growled and threw his phone at the couch, glaring at everything.

Mycroft, having been standing in the doorway, was looking down at his feet.

“I’m sorry about that, I… shouldn’t have blown up like that.” Greg apologized. Mycroft shook his head. “He told you, didn’t he?”

Greg’s stomach did the weird wobbling thing again. “Um. Yeah.”

“Oh.”

An awkward silence.

“Listen… if it’s true, that’s fine. I don’t mind. But, um… I’m sorry, I don’t really…” Greg could feel his heart breaking as Mycroft stood there, feet shuffling, and a dragged sleeve over his eyes.

“I know.” Mycroft sniffed, giving him a wry smile. “I never thought you would.”

An awkward silence.

“If you don’t want to stay here, I get it. I can put you up in a hotel until you find a place.”

“Um, I don’t mind, but if that’s what you want…”

“It’s probably best.” Greg could hear Mycroft’s heart breaking now.

“Okay. I’m sorry, Mycroft.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I’m still sorry.” Greg sighed, wiping his own eyes now. He went into the yellow guest bedroom that suddenly felt too aggressively cheery for any situation, and he gathered his things.

It was an hour later that found Greg shoving boxes into a cab.

He turned back to look at Mycroft, who was standing as elegantly and confidently as he could in front of the house. Greg walked over. “Thanks for… everything.” He smiled sadly, and kissed Mycroft clumsily on the cheek.

He turned back to the cab.

And never looked back.


	10. Chapter 10

Mycroft turned back to the house.

He glanced back after a few moments, but the cab had already gone around the corner.

He thought to himself, trying to piece together what to do with his life, which had suddenly become as broken as a shattered mug.

So he drove. He got in his car, and drove until he found himself parked in his parents’ driveway. Unsure of why he was there, exactly, Mycroft still walked up the stoop, and knocked on the door.

It only took a few moments for his mother to answer the door. She took one surprised look at him, and hurriedly ushered him inside.

Violet sat him down, and quickly shoved a cup of hot chocolate into his hands.

“Mycroft dear, what happened? Do you want to talk about it?” She called for Charles to come downstairs.

Mycroft had stopped crying and sniffling a long time ago- he’d never been a crier. But he felt hollow and dead inside, which was somehow much worse. He felt like he hadn’t slept in days.

Charles came down the stairs, sitting next to Violet when he figured out what was happening.

“You know that Greg has been living with me for the last couple days since his divorce. Apparently, Sherlock told Greg to befriend me. He wanted to have us date, or whatever. He was probably planning to do something reminiscent to what he did to me while I was in University. I don’t know how he planned to do it, but he wanted to screw everything up for me, again. When I told Greg what Sherlock planned, and what he had done, Greg called him. He told him that Sherlock was done with cases at the Yard. Sherlock got defensive, and he… lashed out. Told him that I…” Mycroft closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to calm himself down, “That I was in love with him.”

Violet’s face crumpled. “Oh Myc…”

“He rejected me. Obviously.” He offered spitefully.

It had been a long time, a very long time, since Violet and Charles had seen their eldest son coming to them for help- so long that he was likely younger than thirteen when he last came to them with a problem that he couldn’t fix. It almost scared her to see how beaten down, and how lonely her son had become.

“What can I do, sweetheart? Tell me what we can do, and we’ll do it.” Violet promised.

Mycroft sighed, rubbing his face, suddenly feeling ten years older- not a good feeling for a man chasing fifty. “Tell Sherlock that… that I don’t care what he does to me. But the second he starts going after Greg… He’s going to get what’s been coming to him for thirty years.” Mycroft paused, and told his parents that he was going to crash in the guest bedroom for the night, and that he’d likely be gone to work by the time they woke in the morning. With that, he trudged up the stairs, and quickly fell asleep in the guest bed, without even removing his jacket.

*:*:*:*:*

 

John was staring open-mouthed at Sherlock as he ended the call. “What in ever-living hell was that about, Sherlock?”

“Lestrade is being petty, he’ll come around in a week.” Sherlock shrugged, and threw John’s phone aside on the table.

“No, that’s not what I’m talking about, but while we’re at it, Lestrade isn’t really the one that’s being petty, and I sure as hell know he’s not weak enough to bend to you of all people in as little as a week.”

Sherlock looked vaguely offended, but tried to turn away from John.

“No.” John grabbed him by the arm, using the soldier’s strength that Sherlock sometimes forgot that he had to keep him from walking away. “Sherlock, if you want your brother to be lonely, then perhaps I’ll just give you a taste of your own medicine. I can be gone from here faster than you can say a word of bullshit about Greg or Mycroft being the one at fault here.”

“You can’t leave.”

John laughed humorlessly, “Oh do you want to play this game? Okay Sherlock, come up with a shred of evidence that would support that.”

“If you leave, Mrs. Hudson won’t get full rent.” Sherlock listed.

“I’ll keep paying her, even if I stop living here, because I want the people I care about to live happy and fulfilling lives.” John countered faux-brightly.

“I know how to get to the drugs you so desperately try to keep me away from.”

“Ooh!” John glared, pretending to be excited, “This one’s good, Mrs. Hudson’s not stupid, she’ll know, and she has explicit instruction to call me if she ever finds any amount of indication that you’re using again, and guess who I’ll call? Greg and his team- including Sally and Anderson. And something tells me Greg won’t hesitate to arrest you this time. Try again, Sherlock.”

There was a momentary pause, where John could see Sherlock floundering for another excuse.

“Oh you’ve come up short, have you? Now to me, it looks like you’re getting desperate. Desperate for me to stay, because, if you’ll remember, I am literally your only friend anymore. Now think, and think hard, because I want you to remember how this feels, how it feels to have the last person that you trust and care about to start abandoning you, because this is exactly what you’ve done to Mycroft twice now. And now, I’m giving you the privilege to feel what it’s like to really have everyone abandon you, because I am in fact leaving. Whether I’m gone for good, or whether I’m going to come back at some point is really up to you. For example, if I find out that you’ve told some other person that one of their friends is in love with them, then I’m gone forever with no chance of ever getting me to talk to you again. But if I hear you’ve apologized to both Mycroft and Greg, mended the bridge between you and your brother that you burned thirty years ago, made friends with Greg again- who you deeply betrayed the trust of, and apologized to me for wrapping me up in all of this, then that’s when I’ll start living here again, but that’s if- and only if- you’ve done every single one of those things. Do. You. Understand. What. I’m. Saying.”

Sherlock seemed taken aback at how authoritative John was being. He nodded, not even consciously aware of his decision to do so.

John let go of Sherlock’s arm, and marched down the stairs to explain the situation to Mrs. Hudson, and to warn her to be on high alert.

Sherlock spent the next half hour being shouted at by Mrs. Hudson, only to be saved by the ringing of his phone, after which he spent the next hour being shouted at by his mother.

*:*:*:*:*

 

Anthea was furious when she found out about the ordeal, and immediately fessed up that she’d been part of the conspiracy to give Mycroft a friend (or a boyfriend). Mycroft sighed, having kind of expected this, “It’s not your fault, Anthea. You never knew Sherlock in his phase where everything that he did was to spite, piss off, and or alienate me.” Mycroft had already started the long and arduous process of rebuilding the wall around his heart- and it didn’t help that every time he tried thinking about it, ‘Wonderwall’ would play in his head, and effectively knock down half the wall with the simple memory of Greg singing the song.

Work was hell that day, as he’d expected, but he’d even managed to put it all out of his mind, until Stevens walked in, and mentioned how nice it was that Greg was living with him.

“Not really,” Mycroft commented, and his wall- and his heart- shattered.

“What do you mean? He seemed like a nice enough guy when I met him.”

“Yes, he’s probably the nicest man you’ll ever meet- especially in this job- but that’s not really the issue. The issue is more along the lines of the fact that somehow Sherlock seems to ruin everything that happens to me.” He smiled cynically.

“What’d he do this time?”

“Think: Jacob Birch.”

“Fucking hell. If I’m assuming correctly, Birch becomes Greg, but something tells me Sherlock wasn’t trying to get Greg to have sex with him.”

“That’s basically it. Sherlock told Greg to befriend me. Didn’t quite mention that he wanted romance on the table. But god only knows what Sherlock planned to do if his plan succeeded. Obviously it didn’t, Greg is now painfully aware of the fact that I’m in love with him, is now living elsewhere, and I am back in my comfortable yet depressing position of ‘caring is not an advantage’. Might even take it a step further to ‘caring is bloody well a disadvantage if you ever want to have the possibility of the shadow of happiness.”

“That’s a little less catchy.”

Mycroft snorted. “No, but I’ve finally learnt my last lesson- Sherlock is a disgusting example of a human being, and that I should distance myself from him by all means necessary.”

Stevens shrugged sympathetically. “If you ever need something, you know where I am.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft picked up the file Stevens had dropped off, and tried to shut himself out from the world yet again.


	11. Chapter 11

Thirty years ago

Mycroft was inherently dramatic person. It was in his genes. While Sherlock would throw huge fits if he didn’t get his way, Mycroft’s dramatics tended to be more subtle (though less subtle than he might admit). From his huge sighs when Professor fucking Hartson would give them extra assignments, to the extravagant poster on his side of the dorm featuring the bridge crew of the Enterprise, to- and Stevens will never let him forget this- his tendencies to pair every emotion with awfully cliché music. And he would play it. Loudly. On repeat. Of course he kept it secret from Stevens, until the man found out when he walked in to find Mycroft facing away from the door blasting Girls Just Wanna Have Fun on top volume. Later he found out that the reasoning for this particular song was because he’d gotten a date with Jacob Birch, who Stevens always thought was going to end up to be an ass, but he never mentioned it to Mycroft.

“Hey Myc?” He’d practically shouted over the music. Mycroft had startled, and nearly broken his computer in his efforts to turn it off. He was bright red when he’d turned around.

“What? What do you need?”

“I uh… I got out of class early.”

“I see.”

“So… Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, huh?” Stevens had smirked.

“Don’t judge me!” Mycroft huffed. “I just got a date with Jacob.”

Stevens’s heart had sank, but he put on a smile for Mycroft’s sake.

“That’s great, man! When and where?”

Mycroft had then rambled on about what was going to happen on the date, what he would wear, et cetera.

Stevens then had to watch the disaster that was Mycroft’s relationship with Jacob Birch. He became shallow, almost. He’d stopped talking to Stevens unless it was to ask what had happened in Chemistry, which he had missed because he was out with Jacob fucking Birch.

The relationship had only lasted a month and a half, but it was enough for Mycroft to be absolutely infatuated.

Then Jacob had started fucking Sherlock. Damn it if Stevens didn’t hate Sherlock to this day for it.

Mycroft fell to pieces, was so depressed that Stevens was worried about whether Mycroft was going to try to commit suicide.

He didn’t, thank god, but what he did do wasn’t much better. Mycroft became a completely different person. He took down his Star Trek poster, he stopped wearing jeans and a t-shirt opting instead for a fancy suit, and he started telling Stevens that ‘caring is not an advantage’. It was devastating to Stevens. He still cared about Mycroft, and this wasn’t the man that he knew, this was some sociopath that he wouldn’t be friends with in any normal situation.

Present day

Stevens knew that Mycroft liked Gregory Lestrade. He didn’t know how much, but he knew it was enough if it got him like this.

He decided to have a bit of a chat with Sherlock Holmes.

Stevens knocked firmly on the door of 221B, and an old woman- Mrs. Hudson, probably- answered.

“Hello, dear, what can I do for you?”

“Is Sherlock home?” He forced a smile, but he knew it wasn’t fooling Mrs. Hudson.

“Yes, I don’t think he wants to be bothered right now, though. He’s in the middle of one of his experiments. Why do you need to see him?”

“I’m here on behalf of Mycroft.”

“Ah, come on in. I’ll escort you up.” She seemed vaguely annoyed, but Stevens had a feeling it wasn’t directed at him.

“Sherlock!” She shouted as she walked up the stairs, anger obvious in her voice.

There was no response.

She opened the door at the top, and there was Sherlock, so engrossed in his experiment a six ton elephant could have waltzed in and he wouldn’t have noticed.

She left as soon as Stevens stepped in, knowing that the conversation that would be held would be incredibly private.

Stevens marched over, and picked up the beaker Sherlock was dripping chemicals into.

He looked up, confused at the sudden lack of a beaker.

“Surprise, bitch.” Stevens was only half joking.

Sherlock scowled.

“Okay listen up, asshole. You’re gonna go to Mycroft and apologize. And I don’t mean text him, I mean face to fucking face, like a bloody man. And I don’t mean a one word apology and that’s it, I mean fucking groveling at his feet, because you are about the shittiest person I can think of right now. So leave your science experiment, and fucking get your ass out the door, Mycroft’s at the office.” Stevens said this staring straight into Sherlock’s eyes, not hesitating or wavering.

Except to his surprise, genuine shame was visible written on Sherlock’s face, not something that Stevens was used to seeing there.

“I really didn’t mean it like that.” Sherlock muttered, busying himself with putting chemicals away.

“I made a mistake when I was younger. I shouldn’t have done what I did with Jacob Birch, however I don’t regret him breaking up with the man, he truly was an asshole.”

Finally Sherlock stopped, and looked at Stevens. “Mycroft deserves better than what I did, than how I act. He’s a good man. I would like to think that we could be friends again someday, and after thinking some in the past day, I do realize that it’s been me in the way of that happening. I haven’t been… kind to him by any means. I thought that Lestrade would make a good partner for Mycroft- perhaps a good husband. I shouldn’t have meddled, I realize that now.” His voice was soft and contemplative as he admitted something he thought he would never admit.

“You’re right, however. I do need to apologize, though I’m loath to admit it. I need to apologize for my actions in the past month, for how I’ve acted in the past years. For what I did to him in college. I should apologize to you as well. I know that he changed. I caused that, and that affected you, and I’m sorry.” Sherlock turned away from Stevens, grabbing his coat.

“I thank you for coming over, Stevens, but I must go without you. This is something I should do alone.”

With that, Sherlock swept out of the room.

With that, Stevens’s whole view of the man was changed.


End file.
